


Who Watches the Witches

by Elsinore_and_Inverness



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Minor Injuries, The Cunning Man (Discworld), Vetinari is a witch, Witch Hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24666637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsinore_and_Inverness/pseuds/Elsinore_and_Inverness
Summary: "There's always the outsider. And then, perhaps, one day, there's always you." -I Shall Wear Midnight
Relationships: Rufus Drumknott & Havelock Vetinari, Rufus Drumknott/Havelock Vetinari
Kudos: 20





	Who Watches the Witches

“Why do you think you have the right to do what you do?” Drumknott asked, his tone calm and measured.

Lord Vetinari looked startled. “I don’t think what I do is based on a right. If anything it’s based on wrongs.”

“What makes you think you can be judge, jury and executioner?”

“Well, I—“

“Or change people’s lives? Help them to success without asking what they want?”

“I offer choices.”

“You think you always know best.” There was acid under Drumknott’s quiet speech. His fingers trailed up Vetinari’s arm. “What if someone you had executed turned out to be innocent?”

Vetinari had considered this at length. There was always the possibility that he could slip up, end up losing touch—

Drumknott pinched him, hard. It took Vetinari nearly a second to realize his secretary was hurting him on purpose. A fraction of a second later Drumknott was two meters away, the end of Vetinari’s walking stick hovering over his chest. People didn’t realize a stick was as much of a weapon as a sword. If they did, Vetinari would carry a sword.

Drumknott gave a little gasp, like a man coming up from underwater. “Sir! I didn’t mean—“

Vetinari smelled the air. There was something ancient and acrid. Anything you could think to compare it to would be euphemistic. “I’m sure you didn’t.”

The scuffed rubber end of the walking stick swung back down to the floor. The Patrician pushed up his sleeve to where fingerprint bruises were blooming under the skin.

“I’ll get some ice,” Drumknott said miserably.

“The Cunning Man has come to town. The witchfinder’s spirit. You got out of it quickly. I’m impressed. Poison goes where poison’s welcome and it’s not welcome here.”

“He hurt you.”

“I’m afraid you did that. Pinching, _The Bonfire of Witches_ , article 23a, turning a witch’s curse against her or banishing her.”

“It got into my mind.” Drumknott murmured. “It could do that again, and there are people that hate you.”

“I wouldn’t worry about me. Old men are several courses down the menu.”

“You mean people are going to die?”

Vetinari gave him a slightly plaintive look.

“You’re not that old.”

“Thank you. Yes, people will die. I’m afraid there’s not much I can do once the girl who kissed the winter leaves the city.”

Drumknott went to get a piece of ice carved off of the block in the icebox in the kitchen that kept the meat for Mr Fusspot fresh. This was wasting resources, but he felt he had to do something to try to make up for physically injuring his boss. He wrapped the ice in two napkins and returned to the Oblong Office.

The creature was floating half an inch above the threadbare rug in front of the desk.

_I see you, arbiter of what isn’t yours. Stealer of cities. Killer of hundreds. You don’t belong here. You are wrong and selfish, unchecked and unrestrained. If you see the world as a hell it is because it is what you deserve._

Vetinari smiled at the thing with no eyes. “You’re really trying, aren’t you? I’m touched.”

_Press you. Drown you. Tear you into bits._

“Yes, yes, all very fascinating, I’m sure. I wish I could take up more of your time.”

Then the creature was gone, and Drumknott was standing in the doorway holding a piece of ice in an increasingly damp napkin.

He needed to get Vimes to talk to Mrs Proust. Standing your ground alone wasn’t going to work.

“You were looking at something I can’t see.”

“It’s gone now.”

“How did you end up reading _The Bonfire of Witches_?” Drumknott asked, putting the ice against Vetinari’s arm.

“Wrote a dissertation, didn’t I?”

“When did you learn to read Omnian?”

“Asked Professor Jenkins for a bilingual pamphlet. He gave me one in Omnian and Llamedosian, which, as you know, come from very different language families, although at the time of the prophet Brutha Llamedosian was more widely spoken and the alphabet changed so that—“

Drumknott leaned his head against Vetinari’s shoulder. Perhaps this evening wasn’t going so badly after all.


End file.
